


Fire and Smoke

by wantonmoss



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BAMF Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester-centric, If Supernatural (TV) Were on HBO, SPN oneshot, Smoking, Supernatural Hunt, Wendigo hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28425129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wantonmoss/pseuds/wantonmoss
Summary: Dean didn't often get to hunt on his own. Sam always tagged along. To help his brother. Or to hold him back. Nobody has ever said a thing about it before. But the longer Dean hunts, the more violent he gets. One day he might go too far. Will that day be today?
Relationships: n/a
Kudos: 5





	Fire and Smoke

He would plant his feet all too gently at times when he hunted. Like a cat. Sure, he despised them, but he resembled one. He might not be the smartest or sanest man in the room, but he always had his wits and vices, ones he used to his advantage. After all, he was the hunter. The one that plenty envied and even more feared.

Snake. Smoke. Machine. Monster, even. People called him all sorts of things. Why? He wasn't sure. Why would someone give him, a self-destructive killer, such a powerful title? It was beyond his understanding. But did he love to live up to his reputation. They called him smoke, invisible and lethal. And so smoke they'd get.

The case was simple. Simple enough to let Sam stay behind on this one. He always appreciated the break, and Dean loved the time alone. The time when he could light a cigarette in the car and plan the kill without worrying about judgement from his brother. For his brutality or other such things that Sam believed were unnecessary.

A wendigo hunt was almost perfect for today. In every aspect. He could feel it in his bones as he tied his military shoes up, making sure the laces would stay in place. He had a cigarette in the corner of his mouth as he fastened a harness around his thigh. It felt comforting, having a hunting knife always in reach. One with a silver blade this time. Sure, it wouldn't kill. But it would leave damage. And that was what Dean was aiming for. Getting his hands dirty before torching the fucker. He planted a few more weapons on himself, of course. Mostly knives. One axe, though it wasn't silver. Wouldn't do any good on the hunt. Oh, and a crowbar. Too brutal, Sam would say. Way over the top, way too bloody and dirty. Way too Dean. He doubted he'd use it. He doubted he'd use more than the knife attached to his leg. But he liked to be prepared. He liked to feel dangerous.

The hunter chuckled to himself as he took a drag, leaning back in the Impala, inhaling the smoke slowly. There was something about the burn on his tongue, in his throat... He wasn't addicted to nicotine. It was the sensations. The bitterness. The possibility of a mundane death, albeit premature. Maybe he was crazy, but if he heard lung cancer would kill him, he'd drink to it and light up another one.

He didn't bother with a gun, not on this hunt. It was bound to get messy. That was the entire point. It started raining as he was circling the forest, a predator searching for prey. The rain would help him, it would cover his smell. Even the few sounds he made would blend in better with the rain. It soaked his clothes within minutes, there wasn't a dry spot on his body. That only enhanced the feeling of the hunt. A real hunt today. Just him, the moss under his feet and a wendigo. Hiding out in a small cave, apparently. Dean didn't have the element of surprise on his side, not this time. The wendigo was facing him as he entered, expecting something. But clearly not Dean Winchester.

It lunged forward and Dean let himself be hit. He let the force throw him back into the bushes. It knocked his breath out momentarily. That didn't stop him. It didn't cease him, not for a second. His hand was on the hunting knife in an instant, while his free palm kept the wendigo's teeth at a safe distance from his throat. He barely caught his breath and yet here he was. Grinning into the face of certain death. 

A yelp sounded through the forest. Loud and sudden enough to startle even the birds. The silence that followed was painful, deafening. Only interrupted by the sound of something cutting through skin. That something being a knife. A silver blade, slicing through the skin of a wendigo. From his abdomen up. The blood-soaked through Dean's clothes, staining them forever, staining his skin, too. Fuck, that felt good. He used the few moments he just got to kick the wendigo against the nearest tree. Dean was too fast for the damned thing. It barely regained stability when he drove a knife through its skull. Then he pulled it out and plunged it into its chest. That should do it. For now.

It did the job. Kept the wendigo stunned for long enough. Dean collected wood. It was a little complicated as everything was wet, but he managed. After all, even wet wood could burn if you knew how to make it. He threw the creature into the middle of it. Covered it with twigs and leaves. To make sure it burned properly. Then he simply struck a match and the job was done. He sat by the fire for a while though. Why exactly he wasn't sure. Maybe because of the warmth, maybe the familiarity. Maybe he just needed to recollect himself after what he'd just done. He just brutally murdered something and it felt good. He basked in the blood that bathed him, he savoured the warmth of it. He then stood up to leave. But not before fishing out a cigarette from his inner pocket. Lighting it on the fire in front of him.

He walked away with a twisted ankle, a few cuts and bruises, and a broken finger. Pretty good for a hunt like this, purely destructive. Kill or be killed in its rawest form. Maybe he really was becoming the thing that lurked in the darkness. A monster, almost twisted enough to be mistaken for one if he wasn't careful enough.


End file.
